“We have mutual friends?”
“Call him a business acquaintance. Azzam Badr al’Din.” He gave the name its proper pronunciation, Bed-ra-deen.
“Shit.” Jax was aware of October’s frowning gaze upon him. He said, “We’d heard Baklanov was into gunrunning.”
“This was more than gunrunning. We’re not talking about a bunch of Kalashnikovs here, Jax. Whatever was on that ship was big. Baklanov was asking a million euros for it.”
Jax leaned back against the edge of the table. “Why are you telling me this, Andrei?”
“Because this is your problem, Jax, not mine. Besides…” Jax could hear the malicious smile in the Russian’s voice. “What are friends for?”
48
Washington, D.C.: Wednesday 28 October
6:05 P.M. local time
As far as Gerald T. Boyd was concerned, remote viewing belonged in the same category as sun signs and chakras and all the other New Age nonsense embraced by the credulous fools of the world. He knew about the Army’s decades-long flirtation with the phenomenon, and had always found it a source of profound professional embarrassment. So it was with a sense of anger mingled with disgust that he settled at the desk of his room at the Willard that evening and spread the report on Ensign Guinness’s “viewing” session across the leather blotter.
It’s some kind of a fraud, he thought. No one could “see” images with only their minds. Someone had obviously leaked the location of the Yalena and its illicit cargo. The problem was, who? Baklanov? Rodriguez?
Impossible.
As he flipped through the pages, anger bled slowly into disquiet and, ultimately, into doubt. Pushing up from the desk, he paced the room, his mind testing and rejecting one hypothetical explanation after the other. He poured himself a glass of Jack Daniel’s and drank it down in one long pull. Then he splashed another two inches into the bottom of his glass and went to flip open his laptop.
The convictions of a lifetime are not easily overturned. But as he worked his way through the publicly available literature and then on to the material that was still classified, he found himself eventually confronted with more evidence than he could deny. In the end, he was inclined to agree with the general who’d once said that if you didn’t believe in remote viewing, you hadn’t done your homework.
Whether October Guinness’s ability was a gift from God or the devil, it was not Boyd’s place to judge. He knew only one thing: the woman was dangerous, and she needed to be located and eliminated.
Quickly.
Bremen, Germany: Thursday 29 October
12:10 A.M. local time
They went for a walk along the Weser River, where a wide paved path ran between the embankment and a looming stone wall that protected the red brick buildings above from floods.
“So who is Azzam Badr al’ Din?” October asked, huddling deep in her jacket. A cold wind was blowing in off the North Sea, fluttering her hair around her face and bringing a rosy glow to her cheeks.
“A Druze gunrunner,” said Jax.
She glanced over at him. “A what?”
“A Druze. It’s a kind of offshoot of Islam, with a heavy influence from Gnosticism and neo-Platonism thrown in. Most of the Druze live in Lebanon and Syria, although there are about a hundred thousand of them within the borders of pre-1967 Israel, with maybe another twenty thousand in the Occupied Territories and Jordan. Sometimes they side with other Muslims, but they’ve been known to form alliances with the Maronite Christians and the Israelis, too.”
“So who does Badr al’Din sell his guns to?”
“Basically, anyone who can afford them. As far as Azzam is concerned, if you’ve got a Swiss bank account, then you’re in business. He doesn’t care where your money comes from, just as long as it converts.”
“And how exactly do you and Andrei know this guy?”
“I’m not sure about Andrei. But I first ran into Azzam in the Horn of Africa. He was selling guns to my people, and to Andrei’s people, and cheating both of us.”
She walked along in silence for a moment, her hands thrust into her pockets. “You think he’s the one who hit the Yalena and set the U-boat to explode?”
Jax shook his head. “Azzam Badr al’Din is a liar and a cheat, but I’ve never known him to have blood directly on his hands. Don’t get me wrong-I’m sure he’s caused the deaths of tens of thousands of people, indirectly. But what we saw on the Yalena…That isn’t his style.”
“So what is his part in all this?”
“I don’t know.” Jax reached for his phone. “But I intend to find out.”
She watched him. “You know Badr al’Din’s phone number, too?”
Jax paused at the edge of the stone embankment leading down to the river. “No. I’m calling Matt. It’s not going to be easy, setting up a meeting with this guy.”
She tilted back her head, her breath showing white in the cold as she stared up at the pointed spires of the cathedral, thrusting tall above the roofs of the ancient buildings lining the quay. “Let me guess; we’re going to Lebanon.”
He grinned. “If I remember correctly, you wanted to go to Lebanon when we left Russia.”
She sighed. “At least I get to sleep in a bed tonight.”
Jax glanced at his watch. “If you hurry.”
Matt called back about an hour later.
“I got a fix on your Azzam Badr al’Din,” said Matt. “He’s in the Chouf region of Lebanon. You’re booked on the six A.M. Lufthansa flight from Bremen to Beirut.”
Jax glanced over at Tobie, who had fallen asleep, still dressed, on top of the covers. “How do I contact him?”
“We’re working on that. We should have something by the time you land in Beirut.”
“How many people know we’re going to Lebanon?”
“The usual channels. But don’t worry. I told the station people at the embassy there to give you a wide berth.”
“I was thinking more about the file photo my friend in Berlin was carrying.”
“Ah.” Matt blew out his breath in a long sigh. “We’re still trying to get a fix on that. Whoever’s accessing your file is good, Jax. We can’t trace them.”
“What is it you’re saying? That they’ve done it again?”
“About half an hour ago. Your file, and October’s, too.”
49
Beirut, Lebanon: Thursday 29 October 1:15 P.M. local time
By one o’clock that afternoon, Jax and Tobie were in Beirut, standing in front of a seedy falafel stand known as Chez Mahmoud. A fierce Mediterranean sun flooded the narrow street with golden waves of dusty heat as a steady stream of sleek Mercedes, honking Fiats, and diesel-belching trucks thundered past.
“He’s late,” said Tobie, glancing at her watch. They had been told to wait here, in South Beirut. Azzam Badr al’Din would contact them.
Jax gave a soft laugh. “Of course he’s late. This is Beirut, not Berlin.”
Tobie’s gaze drifted to the bullet-pocked walls of the buildings around them. Once, Beirut had been called the Paris of the Middle East, back in the days when Lebanon had been held up as a shining example of how people of different religions could coexist peacefully for centuries. Then came the creation of Israel in 1948, and hundreds of thousands of Christian and Sunni Muslim Palestinians poured across the border to escape the fighting. The delicate balance teetered. Collapsed. By the 1970s, Lebanon had descended into a brutal civil war that killed tens of thousands; repeated Israeli invasions and bombing raids killed tens of thousands more. Now, in the wealthier areas along the Corniche, rebuilding efforts were once again underway. But here, in the poorer sections, debris and bomb-shattered buildings were everywhere.
“What is it?” she asked, as she watched Jax’s eyes narrow.
“The tan Range Rover. See it?”
She saw it. Swooping in close to the curb, the driver hit the brakes. The SUV skidded to a halt; two men toting Skorpion machine pistols spilled out of the car.